throw your soul through every open door
by Celia Stanton
Summary: A series of unconnected Oliver/Felicity pieces from prompts taken on Tumblr. Contains "wed me," "join me," "amuse me," and "their wedding photo," "Oliver soothes Felicity through that time of the month." Latest update: four kidfic pieces.
1. forget the world now

_Disclaimer: the characters and situations herein do not belong to me. This story is meant solely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended._

_Author's Notes: Since all the cool kids were doing it, this is a collection of unconnected short pieces based on prompts received on Tumblr. All are K+ unless otherwise noted. Title of the collection taken from Adele's "Rolling in the Deep."_

_Prompt: "wed me." Title from the Train song of the same name. Set post-"Time of Death."_

* * *

**forget the world now (we won't let them see)**

She becomes a walking barometer after she's shot; she can tell you when it's going to rain or when the temperature is dropping.

She remembers being shot just fine, thank you very much; she also has the scar — which basically means she doesn't want or need the pain.

But it's there, as it always is some way or another in her life, and she tries to mask it as best she can; that, again, is what she's supposed to be good at. Oliver, of course, doesn't buy it — for a terrible liar, he can see through them pretty damn easily — and watches her like a hawk when she starts to rotate her arm or rub at her shoulder. He even pops out to CVS one day, returning with IcyHot and ibuprofen, both of which she keeps in her desk drawer for necessity's sake and also as a reminder that she's every inch as bad ass as Sara is, albeit in different ways.

She gets used to the pain, fights through it even though it feels like wading through sand some days. It's her Lian Yu, in a sense; it's always there, hovering, waiting. It's the devil in her, lurking in the shadowy corners of herself.

A few Tuesdays after they take down the Clock King, she wakes before her alarm with a start. Her shoulder's on fire, and when she tries to rotate it, the pain is so blinding the edges of her vision whiten. She swallows a few times, squeezes her eyes shut as though sheer willpower could make it stop hurting. She does her routine of NSAIDs and patches and heating pads, and by the time dawn has broken, it's just not cutting it and she's even closer to tears than she was before.

She texts Digg to ask for one more "aspirin" to try and beat the pain into submission so she can function. Bless him, he's awake and promises to come by the apartment as soon as he can. She fires off a text to Oliver to let him know she'll probably be working a half-day — she can sleep off the narcotic she knows was her actual pain reliever — and will hopefully be in by noon.

She's just settled herself on her couch with her patch and heating pad and delusions any of it will make her feel better when there's a soft knock at her door. She pads across the small living room and opens the door, jumping back slightly in surprise when it's Oliver, not Digg, standing on the other side of her threshold. "Uh…hi?"

"Special delivery," he says, holding out a pill bottle with one hand and a bag from their breakfast place (when did she start thinking in terms of their and us and we?)

She opens the door and lets him in, tilting her head with a curious look on her face. "How did you —"

"I was coming to check on you and ran into Digg in the lobby." She bites her lip, trying to decide if she should believe him or not, and then decides to let it be. She's in too much pain to really care.

She motions to the couch, indicating he should make himself comfortable, and heads to her kitchen to get a glass of water. As she's turning back to him, she finds herself wondering how he lives with it all the time — not the emotional pain, but the physicality of it; the embodiment. The outside foes they face are strong and dangerous enough, but to have their own bodies turn like them on that? The one thing you're always supposed to be able to rely on? It can be silent and deadly, a ticking time bomb of sorts, one with no prior warning as to when it's going to explode.

He really is a hero.

She joins him on the sofa, curling her feet beneath her and smiling as he hands her one of the pills. She takes it quickly, and then leans back against the couch, head tilted back and eyes closed. She feels a tentative hand on her thigh, and she turns her head to look at him. His hand moves from her arm to the crown of her head, smoothing down her hair before cupping her cheek. Like that night at the foundry, she turns into his touch, but she can feel the hesitation, the guilt, in the touch, and shakes her head. "I'm fine, Oliver. I am fine."

"You almost weren't." There's something hollow to his tone.

"My life, my choice, remember?"

"And now your consequences."

She lifts her good shoulder in a shrug. "I'd do it again. For any of you. We're a team. A family."

He goes somewhere then, eyes fixated on a spot on her opposite wall, and she watches him for a minute, wondering where he is and who's with him. The intensity in his eyes is different when he looks back down at her; it's the Count and his office and making choices all over again.

He's looking at her like she shouldn't ever have to make that kind of decision, that he doubts she'd always choose him.

Always. It's as certain as she can be in this these masks, these war zones with their ricochets.

She starts to feel tendrils of the medicine working, weaving ribbons through her system as easily as Oliver is sliding his hands through her hair. She sighs deeply in relief; the shooting pain is gone, though a low throbbing remains. It's light years from where she was an hour ago, so she'll take it. She settles more firmly against his side and he folds his arm around her — because of the life that I lead seems a hundred second chances ago when her head is on his shoulder; it's a pause and a hand is hovering over the reset button — and she picks up her remote, fishing through her DVR selections.

She sort of forgets what she picks to watch, because the "aspirin" kicks in full force and she can finally breathe normally again, be normal again. It's a fleeting state of grace, but she'll believe it, disappear within it, for as long as she can.

Oliver's oddly tactile this morning, and she makes herself sink into it unquestioningly, just as the pain relief is cushioning her. He is titanium most days, unbendable and unbreakable, and she cherishes the moments where he softens and lowers his walls enough that she can peek over them. Her eyes slide shut as his hands stroke her hair lightly, and he moves to rub her temples.

Staccatoed pictures click through her mind; Digg driving them home the night she got shot, Oliver insisting on crashing on her couch, his fingers in the same place when the rebound headache from the narcotic set in. (Even when they win, they don't.) That he remembers — cares enough to do it again — has her releasing a contented sigh, then a groan before a breathless, "Marry me."

His hands still for a microsecond, and she makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. She feels more than hears his chuckle, focuses on his heartbeat strong and steady in a world where she feels so off-kilter all the time, and smiles when he moves his hand to her arm, rubbing up and down softly. "You just want me for my massages."

"Your face doesn't hurt, either," she says, pursing her lips as she shifts against him, trying to get more comfortable (as if it were possible.) Her eyes are still shut, so she misses the flash of something that crosses his face that holds a hint of tomorrow, a harbinger of things to come.

"Beauty fades," he teases gently.

"Your bank account doesn't."

"I see how it is. Looks and money."

"Pretty good five-year-plan," she replies. Her voice grows smaller, contemplative, when his hand moves to her back and rubs it with broad strokes. "Oliver?"

"Hm?"

"What do you think of my scar?"

"I think it needs to be the last one you get," he replies quickly, hoarsely.

She nods seriously in agreement, then smiles lazily as she feels herself drifting towards sleep. "Oliver?"

She can't note the smile in his voice, but somehow always remembers it being there. "Yes, Felicity?"

"Will you be here when I wake up?"

He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. "Sleep, Felicity."

She does, and just as she's dozing off, he whispers, "I promise," and over the years, it's that promise, not the oxycodone, that soothes her pain most.


	2. heaven or hell

_Prompt: join me. _

_Title from the Civil Wars' "C'est la Mort."_

* * *

**heaven or hell (or somewhere in between)**

He politely declines Isabel's offer to join her for lunch, making a seemingly unhurried exit and heads to the elevators. In actuality, he can't wait to get back to his room and shed his CEO persona, that real world mask that weighs far heavier than the one he actually dons.

(He is so much more than that mask, though; more than the arrows or the personal crusade that's turned into a team effort.

It used to be about the life he led. Now it's about the one they're building together.)  
He sighs quietly as the elevator rises, checking his watch and scrubbing at his face a little bit. Unfortunately, together is not something that's applicable to him right now; he's in Moscow for acquisition meetings and she's back in Starling, manning her old post in the IT department — the balance they keep between their distance during 9-5 and their proximity from 5-9 is at once one of the hardest and easiest things he's had to do — and damn if he doesn't miss her with a ferocity that stings just as much as his bare knuckles on the punching bag in the foundry..

She is where the island ends, and the beginning of a legacy outside his parents' mistakes and his own nightmares. He's freer now that he's fallen — not all the way, but with her wind at his back, the journey isn't as treacherous as he'd once anticipated, and he finds himself reveling in how she keeps turning to him when all common sense tells her she should run the other way.

Then again, she is the most remarkable person he's ever met, not common in the slightest. Were he a philosophical man, he could wax poetic about her being a missing puzzle piece, or the element he'd once lost but found again in her. But he deals in blacks and whites, in truth and all her consequences, and it comes down to the simple fact that they are better together. They want to be better together, and are willing to work for it; take the good with the bad, knowing mercy is found in their proximity to one another, whether they're a fingertip or thousands of miles away.

The elevator finally dings its arrival on his floor, and he makes his way into his suite, He tosses his jacket over the back of an armchair and loosens his tie with his right hand, fishing in his pocket for his cell with the other. He pulls up her information and requests a FaceTime chat, sitting back on the bed as he waits for her to answer.

Though it's still before dawn in Starling, there's a light in her eyes when she appears on his screen. It's a look he's come to recognize, a beacon that guides him home, and if he accomplishes nothing else in this life, making Felicity Smoak look at him like that will be his greatest achievement.

"Hey," she says, voice thick with sleep, a gentle smile on her face.

"Hey," he repeats, smiling as she scrunches her nose up as she yawns. "You sleep okay?"

She nods silently, eyes raking over him as she assesses whether or not he did as well. Truth be told, he'd tossed and turned most of the night, a feeling of something missing ticking loudly within him and keeping him up. Oddly, though, he found some comfort in it; he'd lived his life on someone else's timetable for so long — listened to the minutes counting down to his destruction instead of measuring the good times — that it still sort of amazed him that it could change so drastically. Had you told him last year that in her absence he'd have to sleep with his feet sticking out from under the sheets because he was so used to the coolness of her feet warming on his calf, he probably would've given the same tilted head disbelieving look she'd used on him when they first met. He revels in the normalcy of it all, he supposes; grocery lists with mixed handwriting, toothbrushes sitting side by side, clothing needing to be dry cleaned entwined around one another just as intricately as their owners' heartstrings — things he not only took for granted while he was on the island, but that he'd never known he wanted until they were given to him.

That's the other thing that gets him — there are days he doesn't think he deserves this happiness, that he's made so many mistakes any other wishes should be left unsaid — and yet, she has had faith in him before even he did. She'd asked him once if she could trust him, and his answer of "you can trust me" was the most honest thing he'd said since coming home.

And now they're not only sharing a home, but building one, and perhaps he is a little philosophical (or maybe just slightly sentimental without her heartbeat next to him, beating out a litany of pride and support and love) because there's a part of him that is thankful for his time on the island, because without it, he wouldn't have her — and without her, he wouldn't be himself.

She pulls her knee to her chest and rests her chin against it, asking after a minute, "So how many levels of Candy Crush did you beat during the morning meeting?"

"You wound me, Miss Smoak."

She grins. "Get back here and I'll kiss it better."

He groans a little bit, and infuriatingly (adorably), she smiles even wider.. "Next time just come as my personal IT specialist. Or an assistant to my assistant."

"I can only imagine what…things…you'd need me to handle."

He shakes his head at her, his own smile belying any actual annoyance. "You're enjoying this far too much."

She lifts one shoulder in a playful shrug. "Maybe." Her expression softens a little bit, and he can hear her picking at her duvet cover. "It's weird being apart like this."

He knows (God, does he know); they've only been officially together about five months, and this is the first time they've been separated. For someone who had planned to do the vigilante thing alone, he now finds the loneliness uncomfortable; ill-fitting, unlike the way his hand fits perfectly at the small of her back. But he finds it to be a necessary evil; she'd been miserable as his EA, and it had gnawed at him how the one person he'd never raise his bow against had been injured by him all the same. He'd drawn her into his world and then realized he wanted to give it all to her. He wants her, above all, to be happy, and if that requires a little sacrifice and Googling time differences to schedule morning chats, he'll do it. He gives her a gentle smile and says, "Just a few more days."

She nods and yawns again, hiding it halfway behind her hand, and he tries to ignore the niggle of discomfort at the bareness on her left hand. Instead, he says, "Why don't you fly out and meet me? We'll make a long weekend of it."

She smiles slowly. "I don't know. My boss is a hard-ass. He might not let me come."

He's not sure if that's meant to be an innuendo or not; either way it sets off cascading memories in his senses — so much so that his own hand grips the comforter beneath him, remembering how it feels to draw lazy patterns against her skin, and he swears he can smell the citrus of her shampoo. He tries — failing spectacularly, of course; it'll be those images and not wrapped sweets he'll disappear into during the afternoon session — to blink them away, continuing, "What about London? I'll meet you at Heathrow."

She nods, the light in her eyes somehow impossibly brighter, and he breathes it in just as he sighs promises against the crown of her head as she falls asleep with her head on his chest. "I think I can squeeze you in."

The wink lets him know that was an innuendo, and he just shakes his head again. She's the most extraordinary thing to ever happen to him, this seemingly plain-Jane IT girl, and it's as wonderful as it is maddening. "I'll have Shannon make the arrangements."

"Speaking of, she's going to come looking for you if you don't get back down there."

He glances at his watch and sighs quietly, knowing she's right, and appreciates the gentleness in her tone when she continues, "I'll talk to you during my lunch hour."

"It's a date," he says, standing and reaching for his suit jacket. "Have a good morning."

"Love you," she replies, and he disconnects, walking back toward the elevator with renewed drive to get these talks done so that he can concentrate on the important things, like how his name from her lips is a rebirth and faith — heavenly deliverance for someone who's spent far too much time in purgatory.


	3. look around your world pretty baby

_Prompt: amuse me._

_Title from Del Amitri's "Roll to Me."_

* * *

**look around your world pretty baby (is it everything you hoped it'd be?)**

Rule number one to being Oliver Queen's jill-of-all-trades, Felicity learns early on, is to keep the wine glass (mostly) full.

(Mostly being the operative word, of course; the man has more money than God and Warren Buffet put together, and after three years at his side, she deserves to let him spoil her with a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape every now and again. She thinks of it as a well-earned job perk.

It goes without saying that seeing him naked in her bed, head pillowed on his right arm with his left stretched protectively around her waist, is an even better bonus.)

Tonight, though, she sips her Malbec both because it's heaven on her tongue and because she just can't school her features nearly as well as he can, and hiding behind her glass is the only way she can pretend she's not laughing.

She shouldn't be; she _knows_ she shouldn't be, but the look on his face as he schmoozes investors and board members, pulling that playboy smile he once tried on her, desperately trying to look interested, is hilarious in its bored disdain.

(She takes a moment to revel in the fact that she can not only identify which expression he's throwing at her [indulgent smile, amused smile, hungry-please-remove-all-your-clothing-posthaste-because-not-being-able-to-touch-your-bare-skin-is-second-in-terms-of-hell-on-Earth-only-to-Lian-Yu grin, escape-to-a-halcyon-moment-despite-the-encroaching-shadows thankful smile] but that she seems to be creating even more of them for him to wear.)

She can tell he's failing miserably, but that's simply because she knows the masks he dons like the back of her hand he holds - not the one he puts on in the foundry, but the ones that represent this tenuous balancing act; this pendulum in constant motion even as he tries to be the immovable object against everyone else's unstoppable forces. He slides between CEO Oliver Queen and Arrow Oliver Queen, skating a precipice she worries they'll both fall into - for wherever he goes, there she'll be - and it's only in the safety of the inky night and her arms that she sees the true Oliver Queen, the man who has struggled to live in this second life, the healing man who would break a hundred times in a hundred different ways if it meant protecting those he loves, the man whose kiss and promise of tomorrow still linger on her lips even as she vacillates between which one defines them best.

(Tonight, it's the latter, and contains the gratitude they have for the coming of the dawn, the light of a new day, because they both realize they've been one breath away from one last chance too many times for comfort, and they're thankful for the fact that _maybe_ didn't turn into _never._)

He counts his days in failures and losses while she quietly shores up the cracks in their meandering path; he takes care of everyone else so ferociously that she thinks sometimes he forgets he needs to be believed in too. Her strength is quieter than his, but no less strong, and they take turns carrying each other when the world tries to cut them off at the knees.

She never expected to end up here, but somehow now it feels like this is the only place she was ever meant to be.

(Partner is one word that encompasses so many more, including three he whispered against her mouth one night last July as they sat on the QC roof watching fireworks and a future explode against an inky sky.)

He catches her eye from across the room and sneaks a wink in her direction. Her amusement softens into an expression of pride and love, as gentle and fierce as she is. She sees their CFO start to approach with his wife and mouths, "Jennifer."

(Sometimes he saves the city and she helps save him. That he trusts her enough to let her in both parts of his life is oxygen on the days when she can't breathe.)

The smile he gives her is relieved and thankful, and she nods - _always_, a black-and-white certainty in a world made of shades of grey - and she continues to sip at her wine until one of her former colleagues in IT grabs her attention and offers congratulations regarding the simple but flawless diamond on Felicity's left hand.

Even as she makes light but attentive conversation, she notices when the CFO and his wife move on and Oliver is no longer standing in the same spot as before.

(Not that this surprises her; she gets the sense he's always been running - first away from responsibilities and adulthood, then toward another hood altogether. When they'd eventually intersected, these two previously thought parallel lines unknowingly moving at the same pace, they'd skidded to a halt at the resulting crossroads.

She doesn't remember who reached for whom, but the fact that they worked to take that first step together is something she values even more than wine or the safety of his embrace.

Everything goes very quiet in her head when she wonders how still he'll be with a baby in his arms and his own ring reflecting moonlight and the victories instead of the defeats.

There's a part of her that thinks this isn't real, but he might just make her believe.)

She senses him before her peripheral vision alerts her to his approach, and habitually steps back to meet his hand as it falls into its default position at the small of her back. His thumb rubs against the lace overlay of her black cocktail dress in greeting, and he offers a patented businessman Oliver smile at her companion, who returns the gesture and politely excuses herself. Felicity turns into his hand, her fingers running down his lapel a little bit. "You're doing great."

He sneaks a kiss to her temple and rests against her a little bit. She can feel the weariness in his frame, and is - despite all the things they have done and all the things they have become - amazed at this marvel of a man whose only easy day was yesterday. "How much longer?"

She shakes her head, mirth dancing across her visage once again. "Is that the CEO version of _are we there yet_?"

"_Are_ we?" He replies, grinning when she rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

"Tell you what," she says quietly, barely suppressing the shiver that dances down her spine as his hand skirts across her hip, finger following the pattern laid out on the applique, "give it another hour and I'll let you find out whether or not I've got anything on under this dress."

It takes every bit of self-control she has left not to revel gleefully in the strangled noise that comes from the back of his throat, and it takes her a minute to answer after he bargains, "Thirty minutes."

"Forty-five."

"Done." He steals a quick kiss before approaching an international contingent interested in Far East distribution. She finishes the Malbec and forty-four minutes and thirty-two seconds later takes his proffered hand, running once again into evermore.


	4. home with honor

_Prompt: their wedding photo._

* * *

Even now, he can't stop staring at her.

(It doesn't matter that he's legally allowed - and expected - to, but he revels in the thrill of certainty; of tribulations survived turning into lessons learned. He's been forced to endure so much pain for so long, but choosing to be happy with the most remarkable woman he's ever going to know is the greatest thing he'll ever do.

The POWs have a saying: home with honor. Finally - with her - and after all the battles fought and wars won and lost, he truly knows the meaning of both.

They've sat so long in silence and doubt, and now they stand side-by-side in the one thing that will keep them going during the dark violet hours of the hardest days: faith.)

They're into their new home, a townhouse in the same subdivision where she lived before, and there are boxes and chaos absolutely everywhere.

(He'd been fine with the idea moving into her place; it was plenty of space and overall just a great house. She'd been adamant, though, insisting this was the new start to the biggest beginning they'd ever have; they'd climbed so many walls to get to this place, and it was time to build something together.

In the end, he's happier not having to see the disapproving look of her next-door neighbor, Mrs. Wright, to whom he'd apologized about 43,000 times for scaring her one night when he'd forgotten his key and decided to parkour his way up the drainpipe to the roof atop the back screened-in porch and to her window to let himself in.)

He smiles widely as she backs up a step onto the bubble wrap that had cushioned the frame she had just put on the mantel, and she jumps in surprise, her hand flying to her chest. He knows how her heart's beating in the aftermath, because her heart is his, and its beat is the cadence to which he plans to walk for the rest of his life.

(He knows he'd die for her, but more importantly, he'll _live._)

He lets out a chuckle, which causes her to whirl, the ends of her loose blonde hair catching in the corner of her mouth. She puts her hands on her hips and arches an eyebrow; he wordlessly steps to her, brushes the strands from her lips with his thumb and bends down to kiss her gently. She hums into the kiss, hooking her fingers in the belt loops on his jeans and when he draws back, her soft smile makes him grin again.

She shakes her head, her smile contradicting the idea that she might actually be annoyed with him. He kisses her forehead when she slides her arm around his waist, and wraps his own arm around her shoulders when she turns so she's next to him, both looking at the mantel.

The picture she's put up is one of them on their wedding day, some three months before. They're hand in hand, walking away from the tent set up for the reception to steal a quiet moment on a day that had truly been lived out loud.

It had been Felicity who turned around first, and something had blossomed in his chest as the light from the setting sun glinted off the rings on her finger, magnified by the fact that even on the most important day of their life, even when they're side-by-side and in perfect step for once, she's still got his back.

(They still have their nights - and she's said over and again how much she loves spending that time together - but now they have each other's days and tomorrows, and they emerge from the defining darkness hand-in-hand.

The thought strikes him as he stands at the front of the small church in Manchester that she's been doing that a lot longer than he'd realized, going back to her rebuilding the foundry and somehow, effortlessly and quietly, rebuilding _him_.

Maybe even longer.

For someone who, for a long while, couldn't tell armistice from war, he is for once not battle weary or dark or defeated. This is his victory, and he will revel in it.

Turns out there _was_ a choice to make.

Thank God he made the right one.)

The photographer had snapped a picture when Felicity had looked over her shoulder to locate the source of the shuffling grass behind them, smiling beatifically. He'd kept walking, fingers laced with hers, and he just loved that picture, because of how unabashedly happy she was. It was that look, he knew, that would get him up in the morning.

They'd snuck off to the back garden behind the main house at Hildene, one that opened to a spectacular view of the Green Mountains. In October, the trees lining the hills were breathtaking in their colors, all lines and vibrancy and a little bit of magic - so much like Felicity. They'd stood at the foot of the small rock wall that protected anyone walking the periphery of the property to slide down the steep hill into the corresponding valley. He'd wrapped his arms around her waist, bending slightly to rest his chin on her shoulder, kissing just below her ear and smiling as she shivered - it had been unseasonably warm all weekend, perfect for her lace cap sleeves and keyhole back, and that he could do that to her makes him the remarkable one - until he looked back down at her, of course.

He'd whispered _I love you_ against her collarbone, and she'd covered her hands with his.

He'd stared at her wedding ring for an arguably abnormal amount of time, breathing her _- them_ - in before saying, "Hard to imagine this all started with a crap cover story and an IT Department."

She'd smiled, her quiet laugh moving his hands as they rested on her abdomen.

(He'd tried not to picture her with their baby growing inside her; tried not to remind himself to ask Thea how to paint nails for the end months when Felicity can't see her feet.

He'd tried, and he failed.)

Her reply had broken him from his reverie. "You're Mr. Queen," she'd repeated, turning her head until her cheek is resting against his chest.

He hadn't repeated his original reply. Instead, he'd turned her all the way and kissed her gently but meaningfully, and then murmured, "And now you're Mrs. Queen."

She'd laughed heartily, head tipping back and the loose curls she'd let out after removing her veil for the reception, sliding away in solidarity and amusement.

(If it all ends tomorrow, it's the look in her eye when she gazes up at him will make everything he's ever done worth it.)

Their wedding planner had approached quietly, saying, "Sorry to interrupt, but they'd like to start dinner now."

They'd both nodded, and he took her hand once again when she offered it to him. He'd kept her an arm's length away - probably more, to tell the truth - and now she was - and, amazingly, by choice - less than one breath away. Permanently, in a world he knows is not.

(They'd both seen and done extraordinary things, but the fact that she'd said _'til death do us part_ and _meant_ it with the huge heart she has is the greatest thing he will ever achieve.)

They'd dined and danced until about 3 AM and went back to the private house across from the main hotel at Hildene. She'd taken her shoes off somewhere after they cut the cake, and as they walked down the hill to their accommodations, he'd picked her up in a fireman carry so she wouldn't have to put them back on, nor would she have to walk on the gravel.

"My hero," she'd murmured, cupping his cheek.

"Yours," he'd confirmed before opening the outer door to the house and placing her on the entryway carpet. The wedding planner's assistant had dropped the key under the welcome mat so Oliver wouldn't have to look after it during the reception, and he'd craned his head to look up at Felicity when she started rubbing soothing circles across the expanse of his back. He'd stood quickly, grabbing her by the waist and swallowing her surprised "eep!" with a kiss.

"Inside," she'd whispered, and something in him stirred when he'd realized she wasn't talking about the house.

(Hilariously, though, because they've never lived by other people's rules and expectations, she'd returned from hanging up her wedding dress to find him sound asleep on the bed.

He'd get to see the specially chosen green lingerie ensemble - she'd tell him later why she chose it; she'd deliberately avoided wearing the color at either of their jobs, saved it for this very moment - and he takes his time running his hands across the garter and the thin material covering her stomach, and the beautiful curves of her breasts.

He will remember that night for as long as he lives, and doesn't feel the least bit guilty that the memories will probably get him through several board meetings.

The most vivid memory of all is him kissing the bullet wound she'd received from the Clock King, and her reciprocating with attention on the scar on his bicep from when he'd rescued her from the Count. Things that could have killed them, but instead ultimately helped to get them to focus on _living._

They are synchronicity, scars and stories, and she knows every word.)

He realizes she's been speaking while he was lost in the newly built section of their foundation, and kisses the top of her head in apology.

"Tuning me out already? That's not a good sign."

"Hm?" he teases, and she swats at his side.

She huffs out a bemused sigh. "I asked you if you liked that one, or if you wanted to pick another picture instead, like the one where you saw me for the first time."

She'd laughed at the idea of them not seeing each other before the wedding; they'd already _done_ "for better, for worse; in sickness and in health." Everything else felt like a little like a formality.

He's known for his poker face, but it had failed him that day. He'd been standing in the garden, heart beating a mile a minute, and heard her approach as her heels kicked against the brick path laid there. She'd put her hands on his shoulders and he'd turned, mouth falling open and eyes wide as he took her in.

(He still remembers the first time he'd seen her dressed up; the Dodger case. He hadn't believed what he was seeing.

This moment multiplied that tenfold, and there had been a part of him that wanted to do her victorious fist bump. Instead, he just drew her to him, murmuring _you're so beautiful _against her temple, rubbing her mostly bare back and counting down the minutes until she would feel the platinum band on his hand all over her skin.)

Finally, he shakes his head and then motions to the picture she'd just placed. "I like that one."

She smiles and then checks her watch. "It's past six. Are you hungry?"

"I think the dishes are in the guest bathroom," he says and she just looks at him for a minute.

"Of _course_ they are," she eventually says. "Why wouldn't they be?"

"Maybe the movers -"

"If you say they think out of the box, Oliver Queen, I will divorce you tomorrow."

(They end up ordering pizza and sitting cross-legged on their living room floor, lighting a few candles - why she can find those and not the necessities like dishes is a mystery she forgoes trying to solve, because it just somehow feels _right_ - - and drinking the housewarming present Thea had dropped off earlier.

And two years later, in the frame on the mantel, it'll be a sonogram that makes him smile.)


	5. colorblind

_Prompt: From nonplatoniccircumstances on Tumblr: Felicity/Oliver-it's her time of the month and he knows her well enough to know how to soothe her (*cough*back massage*cough*). Again, established (I know, I know, I'm sorry!) and warnings for talk of girly things, baseball, clotting disorders and general schmoop. _

_For Liz and ladychi._

* * *

Her sigh curls against the master bedroom ceiling of her townhouse as the down comforter and equally plush pillows settle familiarly around her. Her bones are weary and her lids heavy as they slide against the still-risen sun beyond the shades she's pulled shut, but she's not focused on the day still blazing beyond. In fact, she's not focused on much beyond being in her most comfortable pair of pajamas (which may or may not consist of a pair of Oliver's athletic shorts and a far-too-big-for-her Seattle Mariners t-shirt she'd gotten him for Hanukkah the previous year and then promptly stolen - hey, it wasn't _her_ fault his clothes were so much more comfortable than her own) or the heating pads perched both behind her (where his absent hand should've been, she thinks grumpily to herself) and on her torso.

Her phone, tablet and laptop lay momentarily ignored on various surfaces around their bedroom as she shifts against the luxurious fabric that covers the bed - one of the few times she'd allowed Oliver to spoil her a little bit (outside of electronics, anyway; hey, even she has standards, and, double hey, dating a billionaire _should_ have perks) - and her hand lies beneath the covers on her right thigh, meticulously checking her protection for the day.

(To think there was a time talking about her bed, Oliver and protection all in one sentence would've set a blush to her cheeks as vibrant as the Rosier she's enjoyed on occasion.

She has no comment on the allegation she may have held that same hand a little to the left a few times with the same picture she has now in her mind - chiseled jaw, eyes that sometimes hold more answers than questions, abs that she thinks all faiths can agree are a religious experience - and that her groans then were not made of the discomfort that is the explosive behind the noises currently detonating from her mouth.)

She's got a pad on and a tampon in, and yet she's still thankful for the dark navy of the sheets on which she lies; her cycle has always been heavy, and the one thing her father _did_ leave her with - a blood clotting genetic defect - makes it more dangerous for her to be on birth control, so there's no chance for medicine to alter it. Instead, it's five days of Aleve and heating pads, and in the last year, Oliver to help her through.

(She still laughs when she thinks of the first time he'd realized she was an _actual_ girl this _actually _happened to. Digg had rolled his eyes and muttered, "_How_ many women have you been with?" and she'd laughed so hard she'd doubled over at the small sink in the foundry where she'd been washing the blood off her hands. Oliver, of course, had rushed to her and worried she'd somehow been injured, and had literally stopped in his tracks and stubbed his toe on the iron shelf adjacent to the bathroom when he'd seen the Tampax box.

Around the same time the next month, though, she'd been touched to find a bag of Hershey's Kisses next to her work station in the foundry - as well as four brown paper grocery bags full of every feminine product on the market. )

It shouldn't touch her as much as it does that he makes the grocery store runs at two in the morning, traversing the aisles similar to the one she will one day walk down to get to him, but it does, because she would completely understand if he wanted nothing to do with blood ever again.

For her, though, he is many things, and one of them is colorblind.

(She finds out later he'd done the same thing for Thea rather retroactively, but never unnecessarily; he'd been on the island when she was a girl becoming a woman, and despite what has transpired, she is still his sister, and he will be here for her because of the times he was not.

It's the same for Felicity, and she thinks it makes both her and Thea love Oliver more.)

She hears the click of the lock over the soft tones of a Discovery Channel documentary, and sits up quickly, hand reaching for the Taser Oliver insisted she keep in the bedside table even after he moved in. Her fingers drop and finally, a tired smile pulls at her lips when he hears him call from the small foyer by the front door. "It's just me."

The sounds of home fall around him as he enters, the tall layout of the house echoing and encompassing his presence just as his person does when they're together; the clank of his keys in the blue hand blown glass dish they'd gotten in Greece the summer before, the dull thud of his shoe hitting the wall as he toes it off, the rustle of fabric as he discards his suit jacket all tell her he's arrived home early from his trip. He brings his overnight bag up the two small flights of stairs to their bedroom, setting it in the corner before leaning over to give her a kiss.

He answers her unasked question before she can even open her mouth, and despite her physical discomfort, she smiles wider at the familiarity and his scent as it washes over her. "Caught an earlier flight."

"How'd it go?" she asks, nimble fingers undoing his cuff links and then adjusting her heating pad, watching him in her periphery as he slides the pinstripe shirt off his frame.

(She silently loves that despite all their yesterdays and the promises of tomorrows, there's still a little thrill that shoots through her at the fact that, despite everyone else's assertions, he is never out of sight or out of mind.

She has always seen him, will always find him, and the biggest thing they've survived is the fact that for him, the same is true of her.)

"We'll see," is his noncommittal answer, and he pulls on his sweats before making his way to his side of the bed. He pulls the duvet back and slides in, reaching for her. She slides against his bare chest, eyes sliding shut as his hands start to work at her neck muscles.

(She kind of loves that he doesn't ask how she is. He just knows.

There are few things that make her feel better on these days.

He is all of them.)

He's beyond silent when he does this for her, so different than the other times his hands are on his skin - in sickness and in health (given their close calls, for as true as it might be, _til death do us part_ is still a little too raw to think about some days) - so focused on taking hands that so often hurt and making sure that this time, they heal. She feels the broken skin on his knuckles as it trails down her spine, thumbs alternating and relaxing her muscles, and she makes a mental note to tape his hands better the next time he boxes using the dummy; feels the calluses from the sparring sessions with the yantok on the palms of his hand jump across the constellation of freckles in the middle of her back. His index and middle fingers circle in matching patterns, spreading out across her back and back in again, going to the edge but always coming right back to center – just like the promise he'd made to her a hundred times with his words and his eyes – and she can feel the rest of her body start to relax, the tension that kept her so uncomfortably wound ebbing away.

The funny thing is that she doesn't quite remember how they figured out that him giving her a back massage helped her so much during her period. It's just one of those things that seems to have sprung into being; Athena from Zeus - powerful and yet comforting, serene. What she appreciates most, though, is the fact that in spite of his purgatory, her own hell, and this rabbit hole she joined him in because they should never, ever be alone in the depths of it, he treats this like _it_ is his mission; that her five days a month of being miserable are indeed the apocalypse breathing ash as it approaches, because it affects her, and therefore, it affects _him. _It's a big deal because they _make _it one; there are no utterances of "in the grand scheme of things," because here, there is nothing grander - nothing more important - than taking care of each other.

(He cares because she does, and vice versa. And as in all things, they are in this together.

A team.

Sometimes you need an arrow to an extremity. Sometimes you need a hypothetical 40-bit encryption key.

And sometimes all you need is a hand to hold.)

She reaches around and captures his wrist gently, bringing his knuckles to her lips and kissing them in silent but profound thanks. She hums low in her throat when he nuzzles the spot at the back of her neck in reply, and he rests his fingers carefully atop the heating pad still on her abdomen, cocooning her in safety and warmth. His right hand goes back to rubbing the tension out of her, and when he's done a few minutes later, he threads his fingers gently through her hair, laughing, as he always does, when she squirms beneath him as his breath hits the cartilage bar.

(He was all half-truths and lies for so long. She was never that stealthy, but she still loves the fact that he knows all her secrets.)

She's relaxed enough to reach for her phone and start thumbing through the emails that have piled up since she took a half-day - she never thought she'd miss being his EA or dislike being back in IT, but having to answer to a supervisor other than Oliver is something that is something she's having a lot more trouble getting used to, so the fact that he's _here_ (and he's so, _so_ here) is something she hopes he hears in her quiet, content sigh - and she wordlessly hands him the remote so he can find the hourly airing on "SportsCenter" as they break down the Sox versus Yankees weekend series.

Outside, the world still turns.

Inside, everything in her own is, for the moment, steadfast and still, and just right.

fin


	6. yours and mine and ours

_Author's Notes: Guess who's back, back...yeah, I'll just stop there. A wonderful meme came across Tumblr today that inspired some things, this piece being one of them. It is again established and kidfic, so proceed at your own risk. _

_As always I'd love to hear what you think, and thank you so much for reading._

_**Prompt: I told you we should have just gotten that German Shepherd puppy.**_

* * *

**yours and mine and ours**

It's half past…she squints at the clock, having discarded her glasses in the wake of a pounding migraine 444 stomped feet ago…four hours since they _all_ should have been asleep, and at this point, Felicity is about _thisclose_ to just curling up with her overexhausted toddler on the ground and screaming alongside the epic meltdown that has been raging like the storm that had cut off Abby's weekly Skype date with her Auntie Sara.

Felicity loves weekly Skype dates with Auntie Sara, and she's not above admitting that a good portion of her reasoning behind insisting on quality time with her daughter's godmother is because it allows her to shower for more than two minutes and, on days made of sunshine and unicorns and miracles, allows her to make herself an honest to God sandwich and not just munch on leftovers Abby's left on her plate. Thankfully, Sara knows and understands her ulterior motives, and only judges Felicity a little for them. But she amuses their towheaded, big-eyed girl — because _his _and _hers_ never compared to _theirs_in the beginnings or the ends — with stories and flashlight finger puppet shows and Lord only knows what else, and Felicity makes sure she takes time as she luxuriates in water that has actually had time to warm up to be thankful that though her own Smoak history is about as clear as the steam that fills her bathroom, Abby still has more family than she knows what to do with.

Not that the pontificating is helping her now. Abby's in what Oliver once called Hulk mode, which would make Felicity laugh again right now if she weren't so tired and frustrated she's afraid _she_ might break down, rigid and red faced and crying and just _done. _They've tried explaining. They've tried bribing. They've tried cajoling. They've tried distracting. They've tried walking and bribing again and there was even a discussion about whether or not they should just drive around Starling in circles to see if the smoothness of the road journey would soothe her just enough into sleep, but that discussion had been tabled when Felicity pointed out she and Oliver were both so tired _they'd_ probably doze off first.

Oliver is steadfast but equally helpless beside her, and she just wonders how on earth they thought they'd manage to be good at this.

They've survived death a hundred times, but being responsible for a life just seems beyond her some days.

His hand is rubbing the back of her neck, and she's not sure if he's trying to soothe himself or her or Abby by proxy, and she leans into the touch, eyes slipping shut and a tear escaping traitorously. He folds her into him and she just breathes against his collarbone; she just takes a minute, takes his strength — or tries to, anyway.

It goes very, very quiet in her head — and then she realizes it's gone very, very quiet in the house.

She opens one eye, heart thudding against hope, and finds that Abby has curled up in the middle of the living room floor, thumb in her mouth, sound asleep.

She and Oliver don't move. .They literally hold their breath, and as they do — better when they're together — stand their ground.

He goes to open his mouth, probably to ask if they should put a blanket on top of her, and Felicity shakes her head so hard the end of her ponytail smacks him upside the jaw.

The next time Auntie Sara Skypes, Felicity debates whether or not to mention the fact that she and Oliver stood there, absolutely unmoving, for more than half an hour — not staring at the bright spot they'd somehow managed to bring into what had once been a very grey world as they once had — but out of fear that the Kraken might awaken again.

(She _does_ mention it, and this time when Sara disappears, it's because she's fallen off her bed laughing.)


	7. welcome to your life

_**Prompt: "Rrgh. I dunno. Could we just sand down all of the sharp corners? Would that be possible?"**_

_Title from Tears for Fears' "Everybody Wants to Rule the World."_

* * *

**welcome to your life (there's no turning back)**

Moira Queen wishes she could say she hasn't seen Felicity Smoak this flustered before.

But Moira Queen is trying to reform, and lying is sin number one, so, sadly, she can't.

She'd thought for a long time that they'd never see eye-to-eye, even with all the help from Felicity's impressive footwear collection. But for as much as Moira likes to move her chess pieces around the board just so, she still has to acknowledge gamesmanship, and when she'd realized Felicity _wasn't_ playing a game — that she really _did_ care for Oliver (and not just in a way Moira could exploit, for which she will apologize for the rest of her life for even when she lacks the words — in offering the first cup of coffee after a fresh pot has been made, in loaning Felicity the first pair of earrings Robert ever gave her, smaller than the other pieces in the vault but her favorite because _he was_, in crying in a wedding boutique when Felicity tried on her gown for the first time, never replacing Danielle Smoak but being honored to stand in for her in the moment Felicity allowed her to) — she'd started to see that the younger blonde was far, far more than the nervous, babbling, sometimes ill-timed assistant.

She challenged Oliver; put him in his place when she needed to, and guided him the rest. She was fierce; in her family, in her work, in trying to heal what had been broken before she'd even arrived. Moira thought she saw pieces of herself in the younger woman, though admittedly, there had been cracks in that reflection of hers for some time; she was dogged, almost blindingly so, but always well-intentioned. She always did what she thought best, and in the ashes of the aftermath of a miscalculation, she managed to remain strong even in her vulnerability.

The one thing they do not have in common, however, is how Felicity _hopes. _Oh, how she hopes; in spite of rhyme and reason and all evidence to the contrary, Felicity just _believes._

Looking at her now, standing in what will become the nursery to her first child, utterly overwhelmed but still steely in her determination, Moira thinks that may be the one thing that saves them all.

She has to smile to herself as she watches Felicity glance between four parenting books, all open to their respective chapters on babyproofing. She's worrying her wedding band around her slim finger as she reads, the diamond band throwing arced prisms off the pale yellow walls. It reminds her of Oliver's room when he was small, and her expression turns wistful as she remembers. She'd insisted on decorating it herself, much to the horror of her mother-in-law — though the Deardens came from money, they were nothing compared to the Queens, and despite cotillion and Sarah Lawrence and nary a hair out of place for more than twenty years, Moira had just never been good enough.

(It eats at her to realize she's made Felicity feel the same, and she glances down at the small bag at her feet. It's everything to her, everything she has to give, and it will probably never be good enough.

Still, though, for the first time in a long time, she hopes, and until the day her grandchild is born — and the one that comes after — that's the greatest gift Felicity has given her.)

She finally clears her throat gently, trying not to startle the increasingly flustered woman. She does anyway, just a little bit — baby steps for all of them, it seems — and she still sees the trace of panic that flits in Felicity's gaze when she speaks. "Oh, Moira, I'm sorry! I didn't see you there."

The older woman smiles genuinely, waving away Felicity's concern and trying to put her at ease. "Quite all right, dear. How's it going?"

Felicity surveys the room. The convertible crib is a deep cherry wood, and Moira idly wonders if her grandchild will follow in its aunt's footsteps and gnaw the rails as she teethes. Hanging above is Moira's own gift, a hand-blown glass mobile of stars, and in the corner, a glider and footrest big enough, she guesses, to fit mother, father and baby comfortably.

"It's…going," she finally answers, still working her hand nervously.

Moira pauses for a long minute, then puts a halting but warm hand on her daughter-in-law's shoulder. "You're going to do fine," she says softly. "You're going to do _beautifully._"

Felicity swallows, and Moira can almost see the gears turning swiftly in her head. "There's just so much to _do_. I just don't think I'm ever going to be ready."

"Can I let you in on a little secret?" The irony of the phrase does not escape her, nor does it Felicity, but this is not the time or the place, and when the other woman nods, Moira finishes, "You will _never_ be ready. I'm still not."

Felicity tilts her head a little bit in questioning. "Oliver's a wonderful man," Moira says, glancing down at her own wedding ring; she still wears it because her first vow was and will always be to her family, and despite the mistakes she's made, the lies she's told, that's one truth that has never tarnished. "And I think we both know you had more to do with that than I did."

Felicity moves to interrupt, but Moira shakes her head minutely. "I still wonder who he's going to become, and I still want all the world for him. But you've already had so much to do with giving him that, Felicity; you've given him the start I should've at the beginning. And that's how I know you're going to be a wonderful mother. You and Oliver together….you're a force of nature, and this child — this _family_ — is lucky to have you."

She's not sure she's ever been so honest, certainly not with Felicity and probably not with herself, and she wonders if this is what salvation feels like; if this is what Oliver felt when he was rescued, first off the island, and then by the remarkable woman standing next to her. A tear pricks the side of her eye and she tries to laugh it off. "Oh, don't mind the sentimental old bat behind the curtain."

Felicity, bless her, won't let her. "Thank you," she whispers fiercely, grasping her hand tightly. "_Thank you_."

Moira breathes deeply — freely for the first time in a long time, she thinks — and clears her throat before reaching for the bag she'd left sitting in the doorway. "I brought something for you. Well, for the little one. It's not much, but…"

Felicity pulls out the well-loved, much-mended brown bear and lets out a watery half-sob, half-chuckle. "Henry," she whispers, clutching it to her chest. "Oliver said he lost it."

Moira blinks away her own tears, swallowing a few times to compose herself, the moment bittersweet in knowing Felicity already knows all of her son's history as well as his future; it's a hello and a goodbye all in one. "Robert…was hard on him. We both were. I think part of the reason he was the way he was before the…" she motions with her hand because everything her son's endured is the one thing her mind can't comprehend, "was because he was so sensitive when he was younger, and Robert equated that to weakness. He indulged him later, surely, but, _oh_ the number of times Robert told him to be a man." She shakes her head, remembering fierce arguments around the kitchen island after the children had gone to bed, before she'd become the shell of whatever she was. "He was too old to sleep with a bear," she finishes, rubbing a gentle hand over the worn fur. "So he said he lost it. I never told Robert about the times I'd check on Oliver and find Henry right next to him." She smiles unevenly. "And now he'll look out for your baby. Queen family tradition."

Felicity starts a bit, but not at her mother-in-law's words. Instead, eyes wide and smiling, she swiftly moves Moira's hand to her stomach. The matriarch waits, and as she feels her grandchild kick in apparent approval and thanks, she passes that title on as well.


	8. the joy in the mending

_**Prompt: **__**"Mondays are your diaper days."**_

_Title from Snow Patrol's "New York."_

* * *

The minute Charlotte is born and placed in her arms, Felicity looks up at him and whispers, "I don't ever want to do anything else."

He understands completely.

He is in awe of the tiny creature in front of him — and of the woman holding the greatest thing he'll ever do in his life, who today became even more of a titan in his eyes than she already was — and has to wait a few minutes to hold his daughter because his hands are shaking so badly. The nurse places Charlie in his arms — that nickname will stick for the rest of her life, much to her chagrin, but only Oliver is allowed to use it and she never stops smiling when he does — and he looks between the OB/GYN staff and his wife to make sure he's doing it right.

What _it_ encompasses, he's not sure exactly. Holding her, changing her, feeding her, parenting her. All of the above.

He has no experience with babies; there had been nannies and Raisa and general youthful disinterest on his part. But he's never wanted to do anything more right in his life. He's had to learn, to adapt; it's how he's survived. How he's saved people; maybe even himself, finding some of the pieces that had been lost along the way.

But he's not trained for this sort of mission, this encompassing need to protect her — the one he feels in his weary bones, even more than he does for her mother, and he doubts there's anyone who could teach him. They're going to have to do this the hard way, by trial and error, by truth and consequences, and as Charlie slides a hand around his finger and squeezes, he realizes the one thing he _does_ know how to do is love her, and he promises they'll figure the rest out together.

Together turns out to be the operative word.

Oliver Queen becomes a stay-at-home dad.

It has nothing to do with the money; Charlie's great-great-great-great-great grandchildren won't have to work if they don't want to. Felicity still does, doing security consulting work with Digg and Sara at a company the former set up after Slade was finally, painfully defeated. But for all that he's moved over the years, all the living he's had to do to remind himself he's alive, it's in being with Charlotte that Oliver finally understands why he survived at all.

There was a time when he didn't think he had any, and he's not going to squander what he's been given again.

He loves seeing the world through her eyes in part because he understands the newness; when he'd come back from the island, previously mundane things like traffic or jackhammers or the sound of metal gates on storefronts being rolled up in the morning had taken on an entirely different tilt and meaning.

(He swears she snuggles him a little tighter when they're at the park down by the waterfront and the foghorns sound in the distance, like she knows the noise still makes his heart race a little faster.

He holds on to her as fiercely as he ever does then, kisses Felicity when she's with them, and while it'll never be okay, it's at least a little bit better.)

There's just nothing better than seeing her light up at the world around her — it's fitting, given how she and her mother illuminated some very dark places within him. It's fascinating to him, rejuvenating in a way. Uplifting.

Hopeful, that most dangerous of words.

Everything is big again, an experience. He's not ashamed to say he took a picture of the first time she discovered she had toes and happily gnawed on them while he FaceTimed Felicity so she could see it live and in living color. He caught her on her first step and trip, was the recipient of her first baby high five — even if Felicity maintains for the duration of their marriage that she has eternal winning privileges because Charlotte's first word was "mama" — and he's the one that kisses the boo-boos, makes her lunch, sings along with the damn songs on the kids channels even when she's napping.

And today, he's the one that has her in the swings at the park, waiting for Felicity to arrive for a little stolen quality time during the workday.

Even on their worst days — which, for once in his life, don't outnumber the good — he wouldn't have it any other way.

She's a little more than a year old now, with just enough blonde hair on her head for a Pebbles Flinstone type hairdo, held in place by a TARDIS blue bow because his wife, is, well, his wife. Charlotte's grinning cheekily up at him, her top and bottom front teeth in full view as she scrunches up her face because she knows it makes him laugh.

(It's gotten to the point that he doesn't know if she's mimicking Felicity, or if he and Felicity have been together so long that their synchronicity has extended to their facial expressions.

It's a dizzying, circuitous route, but it can't be all that bad if it ended up here and like this.)

Charlie squeals in the swing and reaches out, and Oliver knows Felicity's arrived. He matches his wife's grin as she too does the scrunch-face after kissing him hello,deftly plucking their daughter from her harness. "Well, what do we have here?" She balances Charlie on her hip, right hand tickling the spot of belly that's exposed as the little girl's shirt rides up in the movement. "Who does this little girl belong to, hm? I think I might have to take her home with me."

Charlotte squeals even louder, and Oliver chuckles as Felicity gets it full force in her ear and winces. As he does — _always_ in this world of potential _nevers_ — he puts a hand at the small of her back and rubs gentle circles against her black trenchcoat, and she just as instinctively turns into his touch. He leans down and steals another kiss, returning her smile as it rests against his mouth, and then blows a raspberry under their daughter's chin after he pulls back.

"You hungry?" he asks quietly, guiding them to a picnic table adjacent to the playground.

She nods, resting Charlie on her lap and smiling her thanks as he passes her the salad she'd requested from the deli around the corner. "It's been a day."

He pulls out the Tupperware holding Charlotte's lunch and slides it toward his girls, uncapping a bottle of water as Felicity opens the container lid one-handed.

"You want to talk about it?" he asks, unwrapping his own sandwich.

She shakes her head even as something in her peripheral vision catches her attention. He feels his brow quirk in a silent question when recognition seems to settle over her and she chuckles to herself.

She runs a hand over Charlotte's head and then reaches for him, threading her fingers with his, amusement dancing in her eyes. "The playground moms are checking out my hot husband."

He's still stealthy enough to manage a glance without seeming like he's looking, and sure enough, there's more of a bit of attention being paid their way. When he looks back at Felicity, though, he has to throw his head back and laugh at the look of absolute _pride_ on her face; were they in a server room, the victory fistbump of joy would be in full motion. "Jesus, I love you."

"Damn straight," she replies with a wink and a look of love he'll never get tired of seeing, and helps Charlotte try a bit of salad using her fork.

(_The Wizard of Oz_ had always been his favorite story as a kid, a black-and-white world exploding into color, and a group of normal people who turn into heroes.

There was a time after the island that he wondered if he wasn't the tin man, searching for his heart.

Looking across the table at the woman from his past who had given him the girl from — and dreams for — his future, he knows he's found it.)


	9. mvp

_**Prompt: Oliver/Felicity, "…They just grow up so fast."**_

_This references a scene from 1x15, and is also set in the same 'verse as "nothing comes from nothing (nothing ever could)"._

* * *

Felicity stands in the little shade the maple tree adjacent to Maggie's soccer field. The eight-year-old is running full-tilt alongside her teammates while her mother tries to wrestle her hair under a hat she's somehow unearthed from the bottom of a bag because her hair elastic broke. Felicity's eyes keep moving, though, the master of multitasking; she glances over the field, then to where Amelia is on the bleachers trying to figure out her pre-calculus homework, and as it always feels destined to, end up on Oliver, who is perched on the edge of his folding chair, intent on watching Maggie make a sweet move around the opposing sweeper.

She glances down at her watch and hopes the tie game is broken soon; they have to go pick Claire up from her voice lesson in time for all three girls to tackle dinner and homework, and if they're lucky, a good night's sleep.

(There are days, she thinks, where she wouldn't mind trying to hack a federal database or six instead of trying to wrangle her family's schedule.

There are more days, though, where she wouldn't trade this for the world.)

There's a rustle behind her, and it's not from the leaves on the tree. Being married to Oliver Queen has heightened her senses enough that she turns and evaluates the change in her space in a smooth pivot of which fifteen years ago she wouldn't have thought herself capable.

The man who comes to stand beside her is in his mid-twenties, with sandy brown hair and matching eyes. He's dressed nicely in a pair of jeans and a pullover, warding off the oncoming fall chill settling over Starling, and oddly, Felicity isn't put on edge by his presence. He meets her gaze shyly, and there's a flash to a time ago — and to another man who would _become_ the Flash — and she smiles, somehow needing to put him at ease.

"I don't mean to bother you, Mrs. Queen, but my name's Johnny Williams."

Something in the back of her brain sparks — lightning from long ago, but somehow it still burns. He waits as her brain works overtime trying to place him, and then it's an onslaught: the foundry a hundred lifetimes ago, face-to-face with Oliver and in his space just as much as he was in her head, and _it was a mistake_. "You're Ken Williams' son. The…the Ponzi scheme guy." She winces. "Sorry."

He shakes his head, and she's surprised to see relief in his stance. "No. No, that's totally fine. I…I know what my dad did. I've come to terms with it."

Felicity smiles gently in spite of the confusion still settling over her at his sudden appearance. "That's…good. I'm glad."

There's a roar as Maggie's goalie makes a beautiful save, and Felicity is aware of Johnny's gaze following her own. "They grow up really fast, don't they?"

She's immediately on-guard the moment he says it — always will be with her girls, Arrow history or no Arrow history — and her stance tightens. Her companion's, however, does not, but still she says nothing as Johnny waits a beat before finishing his thought, looking over his shoulder at a redheaded woman, who gave him an encouraging smile. "I, um, found out today that my wife is pregnant."

The automatic response of "congratulations" still bubbles up within her — she fights to hold on to her ability to see the good in people despite what's been shown to _her _ — but she says nothing, and just waits.

(She got good at that a long time ago.

It helps that all the waiting has been worth it.)

"I work at the _Sentinel_," he says, his reference to the Starling City newspaper momentarily lost in the crowd reaction to a scuffle at mid-field for possession. "I started looking at the Vigilante cases a little while ago."

Felicity's eyes fly to Oliver and she immediately starts trying to formulate a plan on how to get them all the hell out of there and put a lid on this before it explodes. It feels like she's going from the pan into the fire, but she's more than ready to burn. And then she sees Johnny reach out a placating hand that actually never lands anywhere near her visibly rigid body and glances sidelong, warily, at him. "No, no, I'm not trying to investigate anything, I'm sorry," he says in a rush, glancing down at her hand, which has instinctively balled into a fist. "I just remember the Vigilante came to see my dad when I was ten. And I remember the Vigilante _left._"

There's something about his tone on that last sentence, the emphasis on that last word, that stops the panic at the base of her spine, even though her face has remained carefully neutral throughout the entire exchange. "I remember people…bad people…died. But he let my dad live. He ended up letting a lot of people live. He saved a lot of people."

(There's a tightness in her chest when he says that, because despite all their efforts, it's always the defeats that settle within her; the ones they lost seem to count more than all the ones they found. Shado. Tommy. The 503. Eventually, Quentin Lance. Nyssa, who tried to save him.

For all she has in front of her, she misses what she doesn't.)

He takes a deep breath and she waits for the sucker punch. "You all did," he says, lowering his voice. But it's not in warning or the beginning of a shotgun negotiation; he's not threatening to out their operation. Still, she remains in a fighting stance that would make her husband proud. "My wife…the Canary saved her from a group of men as she was walking home from work one night. You helped our city, and nobody ever _thanked _you."

Her mask remains refined. "Johnny, I'm sorry, but I honestly don't know what you're talking about. I mean, I remember your dad from the newspaper, but this Vigilante thing…?" She trails off, shaking her head, throwing him what she hopes reads as a hopeless shrug.

He levels her with a look more knowing and certain than any he's shot her way during the entirety of their conversation — an interaction that's going to take her a bottle or four of pinot noir to process — and it reminds her _so_ of the _I call bullshit_ look she'd leveled at Oliver that first time in the QC IT Department. "Mrs. Queen, it's pretty obvious you're part of Team Arrow."

(She nearly says _we don't call it that._

For once, though, she almost wants to.

They've suffered in silence for so long, but they've also celebrated. It feels…nice that someone outside the little family they've fought through hellforged fire to make appreciates that.)

"I like puzzles," he says after a minute. "It took a little while, but I put it together."

(_So did we_, she thinks proudly, glancing between Oliver and her girls and her memories. _So did we._)

He clears his throat and extends his hand, smiling when she shakes it. "Anyway. Like I said, just wanted to say thank you. I'll let you get back to it."

(She likes that it's open ended; likes that this is, finally and forever, a reward.)

He walks away, reaching for his wife and lacing their fingers together, Felicity watching them the whole way. She misses the game-winning goal, but wraps her arms around Oliver and for once, she breathes in the victory, when the next week, a large envelope of news clippings and reporters' notebooks arrives anonymously at the house, a hastily scrawled note of _it's all yours_ on a post-it note on top.

It's her own little participation trophy, and she smiles to herself as she locks it tightly in the safe.


End file.
